“Evidence? Offence? Then invoke a clerical trial, offering that evidence, as is proper for someone tonsured as I am,” Thierry said. But he knew by then exactly what had happened, and what was happening.

“Perhaps,” said Mercier, the high cleric of Aurage. “In good time. Perhaps. I’d be your judge, of course.” He smiled again.

Time to play, Thierry thought.

He said, “Given that I recently acted as advocate for the provost of Orane before the queen of Ferrieres and the dukes of the court in the matter of the death of the Duke de Montereau, I would expect no delay at all, my lord. People of considerable importance will know where I am. I have sent word back, as I journey, at their request. Indeed, I venture to say, these are people of vastly greater importance than your local friend de Thunier.”

Perhaps a bit much to not give a nobleman his title, but he was feeling rage by then.

He went on, “Events of great importance are about to unfold in Ferrieres. I have already acted in these matters for the court, speaking to and addressed by the queen. I expect to do so again.”

That last was a lie, but this man could not know that. He hoped so, at any rate.

He added, “If Bascot de Thunier was aggrieved in his pride as a poet, is that really a cause to which you want to be attached right now, with what I have told you? And given that you can ascertain the truth of my words for yourself? His fate, for this affront to a friend and trusted servant of the crown, need not be yours—unless you choose to make it so.”

A mistake, he would decide in the damp blackness, some uncertain time after.

The high cleric of Aurage did indeed look less sure of himself, but he wasn’t going to be cowed by a nondescript, mud-spattered tavern poet. And he’d have, Thierry guessed, a long relationship with de Thunier.

After a pause in which he could almost be heard weighing his options, the high cleric said, “We will indeed send to learn the truth of this. It may”—and he smiled again—“take time. The roads, as you’ll know by now, are not of the best in spring. In the meantime, you will remain here. And not as a guest.”

“You are attaching yourself to the wrong man,” Thierry said. “A mistake. I’m afraid it will cost you, whatever happens to me.”

But by then he was being hurried out of the room by the two guards. They took evident pleasure in pulling him along a hallway, then down slippery, winding stairs to one of several dungeons, banging his shoulder and a knee on the wall, then unlocking a door and throwing him inside.

Where he remained.

Chapter IX